


evergreen

by noahfics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Childhood Friends, Crying, Gen, everyone suffers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9779267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfics/pseuds/noahfics
Summary: Kuroo cares deeply, which Kenma has never doubted, and knows not to push his limits too far. He pushes and coaxes when it’s appropriate, but never ceases to dial it back when Kenma’s starting to get fed up. It’s a nice arrangement.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a quick little thing that i hope you all enjoy!!  
> it was a prompt from a 'first sentence generator', the prompt being: "the sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, making him feel very alone in this new town."

The sound of laughter drifts up from the street below, making Kenma feel very alone in this new town. His father had had to put a considerable amount of time into consoling his son about the news of their move, and part of that consolation had been the promise of several other children in the neighborhood for him to play with, though Kenma isn’t finding that to be particularly true.

It shouldn’t have surprised him—he and his father had moved countless times over the past several years. They’d gone between apartments and rented homes, for the most part. (Once, though, they had stayed in a hotel for a period of about three months. That had been his _favorite_.) He should be used to the moves, should learn to expect them, and yet he still finds them jarring time and time again.

This particular move is upsetting in that his father had purchased the house this time. A week ago, he’d finished neatly packed his belongings and his child’s into cardboard boxes and carted them three hours north of their old apartment. The boxes are still mostly unpacked—they’ve taken the time to begin, and while the bare essentials are out, there’s not much beyond that.

Kenma has his DS, though, so that’s something. He’d been sure to tuck it away in the small backpack he’d taken along for the car ride, so that it wouldn’t get lost or damaged in transit. It’s a small consolation, but it’s enough for the time being.

On screen, Mario jogs along, skillfully jumping just over a mushroom and gaining a coin as a reward. The game isn’t particularly challenging, nor is it particularly of interest to Kenma, but he only has a small selection of cartridges that are unpacked, and out of those it’s the most appealing.

Mario makes a leap for the victory pole, slides down, and skips off screen with a cheery wave. Kenma, from midway up the evergreen oak tree, lets his feet dangle, bare legs brushing against the bark.

In the distance, the neighborhood children continue to play, and Kenma shoves his DS back into his pocket, back leaning against the truck.

The sun swelters, blazing white hot in a cloudless sky. Kenma’s skin is warm—currently sun-kissed, but with the promise of a sunburn. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t find a point in it; his father is at work, not waiting on his child to come back in the house, and the other children certainly aren’t waiting on him.

Kenma observes, settled atop a tree branch. After a few moments, he resumes playing Mario. This level is slightly more difficult, but Kenma can recall no less than eight other times he’s completed it. It’s more muscle memory than anything. He hardly watches as Mario skillfully evades a ghost, leaping closer to the end of the level.

It’s routine—press a button here, slide your thumb over the controls there, quickly guide everyone’s favorite set of pixels through the level to safety.

Until—“Hello!”

Slightly startled, Kenma’s gaze snaps up from the glowing screen in front of him. The lights are red, anyway, so it’s going to die soon. Grudgingly, he lets one foot and then the other rest on a lower branch, hopping down into a soft grassy patch.

The offending voice has a messy head full of black hair and a scrape on his knee. He looks friendly enough, and about Kenma’s age.

“Hi!” he repeats, ever cheerful. “Were you playing Mario?”

Kenma blinks up at him, unsure. “Yeah. My DS is about to die, though.”

The boy hums thoughtfully at that for a moment. “I live across the street,” he tells Kenma, gesturing to one house nestled between two identical others. A volleyball sits discarded by the garage, and a child’s toy car is parked on the deck. Kenma doesn’t exactly recall the inhabitants of that house, but he supposes it’s not worth questioning.

“I don’t know your name yet!” Kenma’s newfound neighbor says with a frown. After a moment, he sticks his pointer finger towards his own chest. “Mine’s Kuroo Tetsurou.”

“Kozume Kenma,” he says hesitantly, pocketing his DS once more. “We just moved this week.”

“That’s why I haven’t seen you around, then.” Kuroo seems to hesitate a moment before stepping back and asking “Do you want to play? We can play at my house, if you want.”

Kenma shrugs. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to ask your parents?”

“My dad’s at work.”

Kenma’s new friend—Kuroo Tetsurou, he’d proudly introduced—nods. “We can play inside, then!” He quickly grabs Kenma’s wrist and pulls him towards the house across the street before he even has a chance to react. He has a fleeting thought that he’d rather be home plugging in his DS and playing more Mario, but then he recalls that he’s starting school in a week and a half, and it’s definitely better to start with one friend than none.

So, he follows along. There’s an organizer for shoes at the entryway, and he quickly steps out of his, waiting expectantly for Kuroo.

“We don’t want to play down here,” Kuroo explains. He pitches his voice slightly higher when he explains, “Mom always says I’ll wake the _baby_ if I’m too loud.” (When he says this, it’s in a slight hush as if he knows he really shouldn’t, but does anyway.)

Kenma nods solemnly, as if this is a crucial piece of information, and heads after Kuroo, who opens the baby gate and starts to head up the stairs two at a time.

Judging by the two beds pushed against opposite walls, he shares with a sibling of his. Half of the room is neat—bed made and sheets tucked in, clothes hanging in the closet, and backpack hanging just inside the closet. The other is less so—the sheets are mussed up, clothes are strewn at the foot of the bed, and the nightstand is cluttered with books and old toys.

“Sorry it’s messy,” he says, sheepish. “My brother never wants to clean his side of the room.” He jerks a thumb towards the offending side. He pauses once more before adding, in the same hushed tone as earlier: “Plus mom’s always busy with the baby, so she never makes him do it.”

“My room has boxes all over,” Kenma sympathizes. “I’m not much better off.”

“Do you have any siblings?” Kuroo, having sat up on the made bed, pats the spot next to him.

“No,” Kenma denies, joining him. “It’s just me and my dad.”

Kuroo nods, contemplating. “You’re lucky,” he finally decides. “You don’t have to share a room, then. _And_ nobody takes your toys.”

Kenma definitely agrees, but he won’t outwardly say that—even if Kuroo has, it’s probably not polite for him to say so, too.

“Plus now that Akari-chan—my baby sister—is getting older, she’s _such_ a pain.” He sighs mournfully. “She tried to put my DS in her mouth the other day!”

Suddenly, Kenma has it in him to agree. “I’m definitely lucky,” he says, unable to stop the slight giggle from escaping his chest.

* * *

“Do you wanna play, Kenma?’

Kenma isn’t sure exactly when Kuroo showed up, but he quickly looks up from his PSP, eyes wide.

“I didn’t even know you were here,” he says, still slightly startled. Once he’s had a moment to process that there’s no imminent danger he looks back to the PSP in his hands.

Kuroo pokes out his bottom lip slightly, and while Kenma wants to deny him, he just _can’t_.

“Let me put this away,” he says. “You can come in.”

Most of the boxes have thankfully since been unpacked, making the Kozume house slightly more homey. (It looks straight out of an Ikea showroom still, stark and with no traces of the ten year old inhabitant anywhere other than the confines of his bedroom.)

PSP safely tucked into a drawer, Kenma emerges back into the foyer, slips his shoes on, and gives an expectant glance towards the door.

Next week they’ll start school, which Kenma definitely isn’t ecstatic about. He’s smart enough, does relatively well at school. It’s just the other children that he doesn’t care to see. Perhaps if he hadn’t taken the initiative—though he supposes it isn’t really that since Kuroo hadn’t really given him a choice in the matter—to make a friend, he’d be more willing to go with a positive attitude, but he doesn’t _need_ another friend.

Kenma is lost in his thoughts, that is, until a stray volleyball flies just past his head, landing with a resounding thud behind him.

“You could have hit me, Kuro.”

“But I didn’t!” his friend defends, grinning. “Now set it back to me. If I’m going to be a regular on the team when I go to middle school, I need to be good!”

Kenma shakes his head in slight disapproval, but nonetheless sends the ball flying back towards Kuroo, where it smacks against the palm of his hand.

“Sounds like it hurts,” Kenma observes.

“It stings a little,” Kuroo admits, sounding more proud than anything. Kenma doesn’t understand why Kuroo is enjoying this so much, but he’ll oblige for the time being.

They play this way; Kenma setting the ball, Kuroo sending it flying back, until Kuroo’s hands and Kenma’s forearms are red and Kenma’s struggling slightly to catch his breath.

They welcome nighttime sitting on Kuroo’s slightly creaky front porch. The crickets chirp in the tall grass, silencing when Tetsurou lets his feet kick at one of the patches. It’s definitely far too late for a ten year old and an eleven year old to be sitting outside, but since nobody has told them otherwise, they remain just so.

“Do you think we’ll still play together when school starts?”

Kenma can’t help the question, doesn’t think about it before he asks. He thinks they will, though—he rather enjoys Kuroo’s company, and he thinks Kuroo enjoys his, too.

“Definitely!” Kuroo agrees with an enthusiastic smile. “Of _course_ we will.”

And before Kenma can answer, two bright headlights cut into the nighttime fog, pull into the driveway of the Kozume house, and cut short.

“I’ve got to go!” He offers a quick wave before heading off towards his house, greeting his father just as the car door opens.

* * *

Kenma lets out a sigh into the quiet of Kuroo’s room, observing the dust particles falling, highlighted by the sun shining through the windowpanes, and the occasional rustling of paper as Kuroo flips through his school binder.

Pencil scratches against paper and pauses for a moment, allowing Kuroo to drum the eraser against said paper. Kenma shifts so that he’s sitting up, too, and leans to glance over at his friend’s homework. If nothing else, it’s a glimpse at what he can expect to do next year.

“Is that easy?” he asks. As he crosses his legs, their knees bump together clumsily.

Things have changed slightly since they initially met. Kenma is in his first year of middle school, newly thirteen, and having a hard time settling in. whereas Kuroo is fourteen, dedicating any free time to volleyball, and always sporting some new cut, scrape, or bruise because of it.

“Kind of,” he admits. “Second year isn’t that bad—gives me enough time for volleyball.”

Kenma hums contemplatively.

“You know,” Kuroo says, closing his binder, “You could play, too. We could have a lot of fun! Plus that way, we’d get to spend more time together after school.” He takes on a slight pout, giving Kenma an expectant gaze.

“It looks pretty tiring, Kuro,” Kenma sighs. After a moment, he eyes the bandage on Kuroo’s kneecap and thoughtfully adds: “Plus, you have a new injury every time I see you.”

“They’re never serious!”

“ _Still_.”

“You should give it a try,” Kuroo persists. “You might really enjoy it.”

And truthfully, Kenma thinks he might be willing to give it a try—even if it’s only to please Kuroo.

* * *

Kuroo jogs alongside Kenma, who takes the time to maneuver his hair into a messy half-up do as they continue along. A few dark hairs poke out of the bun at the back of his head. and hair hangs underneath it as well, brushing against his neck. The air conditioner of the gym is working hard to keep the team cooled down, a half valiant effort.

“I could be home right now,” Kenma says, exhaling a long breath. “Could be napping, could be getting ready to nap, could be watching _Pokemon._ ”

Kuroo laughs, quick but warm all the same, and continues along the perimeter of the gym. Their shoes both squeak against the freshly polished wood floor, but Kuroo’s always seem to hit down slightly more. Kenma _can_ run, can keep up, but he has to put in significantly more effort than Kuroo does, evidently.

He’ll do it for Kuroo—he’ll do almost anything for Kuroo, probably. (There are limits to this, certainly, but for the sake of being a decent friend, Kenma doesn’t bring these up.)

He doesn’t dislike volleyball, but doesn’t particularly enjoy it either. It’s exhausting, but it’s a hobby, something he needs to be _well rounded,_ as his father puts it. And he gets to spend time with Kuroo, so it really isn’t all bad.

Still, when the coach says they can stop, he doesn’t hesitate to do just that.

Practice proceeds—Kenma is improving, slowly but surely. Half the time, though, his head is in the clouds. (There’s an incident in which a volleyball is spiked against his back while he’s turned to talk to Kuroo. Following this, he finds himself significantly less motivated to continue practicing.)

And when their coach barks, “Kozume! Use your brain next time,” Kenma finds it even more difficult to find motivation to continue with practice.

Not that he has a choice in the matter, not for the time being, but he can’t help but to entertain the thought of walking out the double doors, heading straight for home.

He doesn’t, though, and while he’s thinking this, another volleyball barely misses his shoulder. He doesn’t even need to look at their coach to picture the irritation on his face.

And yet, he can’t find the will within himself to focus.

* * *

In theory, Kenma should be a professional at masking his nerves. In practice, he isn’t quite that, but it’s close. He doesn’t give away his emotions without a significant emotion—even then, it’s rare. His disinterest in becoming close to most people means that they can’t read him well enough to understand when he’s stressed, angry, or feeling otherwise negative.

Kuroo is the exception to this. He’s surprisingly perceptive to Kenma’s emotions; he probably has no choice in the matter, because if he _weren’t_ able to read Kenma so easily, there would be far too much buildup of emotion on Kenma’s end.

He cares deeply, which Kenma has never doubted, and knows not to push his limits too far. He pushes and coaxes when it’s appropriate, but never ceases to dial it back when Kenma’s starting to get fed up. It’s a nice arrangement.

So, when he shows up at Kenma’s front door with a paper bag and asks to be let in, Kenma knows there’s an ulterior motive, but he still steps aside and invites his friend up to his bedroom, where he makes himself comfortable. (Actually, he hops onto the bed, causing it to creak loudly and Kenma to grimace).

“I brought ice cream,” Kuroo explains, producing two small cartons from the paper bag. Kenma finds it hard to believe that he simply did this out of the goodness of his heart, but it’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t make much money in his part-time job of walking the neighborhood dogs, so Kenma does appreciate it, sincerely.

“Don’t spill,” Kenma warns, though they both know that he will.

“I won’t.” (All in all, it takes no less than a minute and a half for Kuroo to drip his mint ice cream onto the bedspread, and Kenma gives a pointed glare at the spot.)

“Sorry,” Kuroo offers, even though they both know Kenma isn’t truly upset.

Kenma just shrugs in lieu of a response. “It’s alright.”

“You can sleep over if you want,” Kuroo offers out of nowhere. “Especially since school is going to start soon.” And then he tacks on, “I know you’re nervous about it, but you’ll definitely do fine.”

Kenma blinks, dubious. “I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“ _Not_.”

“It’s your first year!” Kuroo reasons. “Perfectly fine to be nervous. I was, and I’m fine! So, you will be too.”

“Wonderful. I’m still not nervous,” Kenma lies.

“You’re bouncing your leg,” Kuroo points out with a deceptively innocent looking cock of his head. “And you’re—”

“Not,” Kenma interrupts. “It’s nothing. And I’m _not_ nervous, so if you don’t mind stopping…”

Probably because Kuroo can take a hint, he falls silent and settles back against the pokeball throw pillow.

It isn’t that Kenma is nervous for school, exactly, it's more like he's nervous about the whole routine, the new environment, and his new classmates. _Okay_ , he gives: he's nervous for school.

They still have three glorious days until then, and Kenma fully intends to take advantage of those—it'd be such a shame not to.

He supposes, after a few moments of contemplation, that not _everything_ is going to change: he’ll still have Kuroo, he'll still have volleyball, their walks to and from school, and their weekend sleepovers. It's definitely not all bad, and, as Kuroo had reasoned earlier, he'd been in the same boat and was doing absolutely fine.

“Movie?” he asks, already making a move for his laptop. It’s likely that they'll make their way over to the Kuroo house later, but Kenma finds himself in no rush to do so.

As Kuroo affirms the movie selection— _Grave of the Fireflies,_ the two settle underneath the mess of blankets together, one of which is pulled up to just below Kenma’s chin.

This hasn’t changed, either—them, together like this—which is the _most_ important thing to Kenma, naturally. He thinks, as he drifts into sleep, that as long as he still has this, things will never truly be unmanageable.

 _Grave of the Fireflies_ lulls him into a light sleep, and Kuroo soon follows suit.

* * *

“Kuro, I don’t—” Kenma’s fingers are laced tightly between one and other, and he struggles to get the words out. He hasn’t been able to as of yet.

Kuroo is showing concern, obviously, and trying to coax his obviously upset friend into divulging exactly what it is that has him in this state.

“I’ll fight someone, if I need to.” It’s an attempt to lighten the mood, but it’s all he can do. “I really will, Kenma. You know that.”

 

Kenma laughs dryly, shaking his head. He glances up at Kuroo through watery eyes; Kuroo has _never_ before seen him cry, and while Kenma’s trying hard to keep that statement true, it’s incredibly difficult. “You… Don’t need to fight anyone,” he assures. “Nobody _did_ anything.”

Kuroo is puzzled, obviously so.

Kenma draws in a shaky breath that’s more of a shudder than anything. He can’t quite meet Kuroo’s eyes as he finally relents. It’s easier this way.

“So, you know my dad.” (He’s skirting around the subject, and they both know this, but both choose to ignore it.)

Kuro plays along. “Of course.”

“He—” Kenma hesitates. “He got a new job.”

Kuroo’s eyes widen; he likely understands what this means, but he _has_ to confirm it.

“Close by?” he asks.

“Kyoto.”

“Oh,” Kuroo says, mouth drawing into a tight line. “I—when?”

“The week after school ends.” Kenma finally makes eye contact, and he’s relieved to see he’s _not_ the only one fighting back emotions.

That gives them just over two weeks, which Kenma knows will fly by all too fast.

Kuroo says, “we’ll be okay.” (Kenma hopes that’s the case, but he’s not so convinced.

“I hope so, Kuro. I really do.” He’s never been one for exceedingly close contact, but it feels appropriate so he steps forward, letting his head fall onto Kuroo’s chest.

“I’m really going to miss you,” says Kuroo, quiet.

Kenma can’t force a reply.

* * *

Laughter flows up and through the neighborhood in Kyoto, making its way into Kenma’s bedroom via the small opening at the bottom of his window. Children play; the neighborhood itself is bustling, but Kenma has never felt so alone.

His new bedroom is small, more so than his old bedroom in Tokyo. There's no big evergreen in the front yard—or the back yard, for that matter, and there's no Kuroo, and there _will_ never be, and he didn’t intend to go into this move with a bad attitude, exactly, but he can’t help it.

He stands and adjusts the window, still hears the laughter from outside, and walks the short length across the floorboards to the box labeled ‘bedsheets’. Upon inspection, the first thing on top is the pokeball pillow Kuroo used to hug time and time again, and Kenma isn’t sure if that makes things better or worse, exactly.

He makes his bed, thorough, so that it has minimal wrinkles, and sets the pokeball pillow down at the headboard, even if it _is_ slightly childish. It’s a small piece of home—of Kuroo.

Across the room, his phone buzzes with a text message from Kuroo. Kenma can hear his father calling him downstairs to help, but he can definitely wait a moment.

‘ _if you want to skype tonight we should!!!’_

Kenma can’t help the hint of a smile emerging on his face as he types back _‘definitely._ ’, but he doesn’t linger long before he heads down the stairs to a living room that looks even less inviting than their old stark living room in Tokyo. Kenma would give anything to be back there, probably.

His dad is trying, and Kenma doesn’t exactly blame him for the move, but he’s still bitter, still emotional about their situation. When they’d moved to Tokyo, his father had promised that there would be children for him to play with, as a consolation. This time, the consolation had been that when they got settled in, Kenma could get a pet.

It’s a small consolation prize, and Kenma would certainly rather have Kuroo and their old house back in Tokyo than a cat or a dog, even something else, but he doesn’t get a choice in the matter, and he’s here—Kuroo’s in Tokyo, and they’re five _hours_ apart.

“Boxes won’t unpack themselves,” Kenma’s father tells him, directing his son towards a stack in the corner.

Kenma knows that all too well.

* * *

Kenma was not, for the record, wrong, when he said that he’d rather have Kuroo than a cat or a dog or something else, but the six month old cat he’s newly taken in certainly isn’t making anything worse.

He’d taken her up to his bedroom immediately after arriving home, shut his door, and set her plastic carrier on the bed, presenting her with an open door and waiting patiently for her to come out. He holds his phone in his hand, the slightly pixelated image of Kuroo coming through over facetime.

“She’ll come out,” he promises, though this whole thing is remarkably anticlimactic. Having Kuroo, even if it’s only here over facetime, is a comfort. (Kenma would still rather him be here in person, though.)

Tentatively, a tiny white paw makes its way out, and then another. She’s quiet, and so _small_ , Kenma hardly believes it. She looks even littler on his bed than she had in the shelter.

Kuroo remarks, “oh, she’s so cute!” causing her to promptly retreat back into the confines of her cat carrier.

“Thirty seconds,” Kenma scolds. “My cat was out for _thirty seconds_ before you scared her back in! Even from five hours away, you’re a nuisance.”

Kuroo’s newfound pout in response to the scolding is short-lived, because he quickly turns it into more of a sly grin.

“You love me, though. I’m _your_ nuisance.”

“I don’t,” Kenma denies. He pretends to ignore the second part, but butterflies swarm in the pit of his stomach.

“You do, Kenma. You do.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Not,” Kenma insists.

“You do,” Kuroo says, letting out a small puff of laughter. (Kenma won’t admit it, but he does. Really.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! comments/kudos/bookmarks are super cool & you are super cool if you leave them


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